


with shortness of breath, you explained the infinite

by windsprout



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Quest: What Pride Had Wrought, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Identity, M/M, Post-What Pride Had Wrought, gratuitous use of elven language, in which this quest was made to destroy elf inquisitors, lavellan just wants peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:59:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6255565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsprout/pseuds/windsprout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they return to Skyhold, there are more questions than answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with shortness of breath, you explained the infinite

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a very long time since i've written anything but after finishing both inquisition & trespasser, i'm pretty sure my life is ruined. i grew very fond of my elf. for some background, he's a mage, though it's purposely vague considering the basis of class selection. i had max approval with solas by this point and am very biased
> 
> spoilers for what pride had wrought, minor identity crisis, and a fair bit of strange angst. some allusions to the ending of trespasser, though it's more of a fourth-wall reference & no real spoilers
> 
> this series has destroyed me

Warmth.

You step into the pool, a hundred ripples spilling from the path you tread, and the water is warm—like the comfort of the sun when the ice begins to melt, only sweeter. You can feel the life humming in the waves, singing at the touch to your skin, and you try not to think about the consequences should this fail; you’ve never thought of yourself as expendable, but in this moment, the truth is startlingly clear. Your hands are steady when you fold them beneath the surface, your heart a terrified rhythm of _this is the end_ , and long-dead voices call to you as you bring the water to your lips.

Warmth, still: painful, if only because of the shock it brings, and the words come quick as you explain— _I need this, I need to stop him, I need to know how to protect the ones I love_ —and the answers leave your eyes stinging. You’d not place this on Morrigan, condemning her to an eternity of servitude, but for one brief, terrifying moment, you wonder why you’ve allowed yourself to sacrifice so much.

_Halam’shivanas,_ you recite, the temple another life away, and calm spreads through your veins. There is life in this water, and that life is being given to you; you’ve made this choice, and the doubt slips away to be replaced by an overwhelming staccato of voices within the walls of your mind. They urge you forward, and suddenly it’s not so dark, not so divine, this history bleeding from the tips of your fingers as you wake from the myth.

“—give him room,” someone says, _Solas_ , and your eyes snap open, magic curling under your palm as you sit up and try to breathe. They step forward and you urge them back, desperately trying to regain a grip on your reality, and the voices grow clearer.

You’re you, in all the ways that matter, but as you guide them through the mirror and into the temporary safety of Skyhold, a piece of you remains burned into the stone where the water once slept.

//

It’s only when you reach your quarters do you realize that there are blanks in your memory.

Not empty space, as though there are holes where you’ve walked, but there’s a blurriness around the hours following your return. The council meeting seems far away, and yet you can recall the worried faces of your companions with relative ease—concern, terrified you’re made of thousands instead of one, and you won’t fault them for this. You would not wish this upon Morrigan; you deign to tell her this much when your quarters seem too empty to face just yet, nothing but harrowing silence waiting behind the doors.

“You claim trust,” she says, unchanged where she’s seated beneath the gazebo, and you tend to the lotuses you have blooming in the late afternoon sun. Your hands are no longer steady. “I wonder, Inquisitor, whether you’ve fully grasped what you have done.”

“Soon,” you murmur, breathing out a quiet sigh and letting the cooler air of the courtyard wash over you. “It’s… strange.”

“Fitting, as so are you,” she replies, just as quick, and there’s a tinge of amusement in her voice—still harbouring bitterness, but subtler, and you’re inclined towards gratitude for the acceptance. “Should you require any clarity, do ask.”

“They’re quiet right now.” You’re not sure if that’s right— _they_ or _she_ , Mythal’s name a blessing on your tongue, and you’re incredibly relieved your Keeper isn’t here. A life you left behind. The lotus bends as you tug it free from the dirt and place it in the nearby basket for gathering. Morrigan’s gaze is steady on your back. As way of explanation: “Halam’shivanas.”

“The sweet sacrifice of duty,” Morrigan murmurs after a brief pause, and perhaps she understands; for now, at least, your duty is to simply exist, and it’s exhausting. “You play the role well, Inquisitor.”

“You once did.” Your fingers are stained blue from the petals of the flowers, and the sister gathers them from the basket once you’ve stood and made your way to sit next to Morrigan on the bench. She doesn’t move away, and if nothing else, you understand the inherent need to be _here_ , to be with familiarity—nature, life, wonder. You’ll never understand her as a whole.

She says, “We must,” and you laugh until the water clears from your lungs.

//

Finding Solas is easy enough, a wariness to the pace he walks beneath the library, and you let him hate you for as long he needs. Perhaps it would have been better to have let the well remain nothing more than a mystery, a piece of shrouded history, but you’ve yet to regret what you’ve done. Maybe Mythal truly exists, and maybe Solas knows the truth better than any of you; if so, you’ll deal with the consequences in time. You won’t perish while Corypheus is still a threat, and while you’re no herald sent from the very heavens themselves, you’re well aware of both your mortality and your impending infinity.

“How do you feel?” he asks, once he’s regained composure and the two of you are seated atop the rickety platform stained with paint.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” you tease, though it falls flat to you both. They think you changed in ways they’ll never comprehend, but Solas is comfortable in the knowledge that you’re still you, if not completely there.

“Physically, I assume you’re exhausted,” Solas explains, offering a mug of heavily steeped tea and honey. Enough for one, and you accept it with sincere thanks. “If I’m not mistaken, both Cassandra and Dorian had believed you drowned, and I do not blame them.”

“It was…” warm, soft, like wisps bleeding into your core. “—quiet.”

“Your body seems to remain unchanged, if not bruised and wounded from the battles themselves.”

“Samson broke a few ribs,” you remark, nearly forgetting about the hour it took you to heal your split skin and knit your bones back together. “Sleep should heal whatever magic couldn’t.”

“And the anchor?”

“Sore,” you speak honestly, left hand flexing out of habit, and Solas’ gaze flicks down for the briefest of seconds. A shared secret. “The voices are there, but not so loud. Content, I think.”

A nod, and Solas’s eyes bore into your own, seeking something you won’t ask for, and you sip at your tea and let it burn your lips. Your night has barely begun, and you won’t leave your companions in the complete dark about the state of your own mental wellbeing.

“Better you than her,” he tells you, sincerity in his voice, and the temple has left you with more questions than answers—about your own history, your people, Solas. You know he’s hiding, though you’ve no idea how to coax him out of whatever it is he’s cocooned himself in. “You should rest, lethallin.”

Perhaps you will. The silence waiting for you is unsettling, so you finish your tea, climb down from the platform, and head towards the stairs.

//

You know he is leaving, though you managed to put the conversation out of your mind temporarily after, yet it catches up with you once you’ve found Dorian seated amongst the stack of books near the window.

“Ir abelas,” you say, exhaustion slipping you back into old habits, and he merely offers a small smile before standing from his perch. There are no birds resting on the railings, and it unnerves you more than anything else has tonight—Leliana is offering you complete privacy. “Have you talked to Cassandra?”

“She’s fine,” he assures you, folding his current book carefully and placing it on the highest tier of his collection. “I believe her exact words were, ‘If you see him, tell him to stop wandering around and go to bed.’ Very motherly, that one, even if she’d murder anyone who dared to speak the word.”

You try for an echoing smile but your mouth twists down instead, the day catching up with you, and any pretense of casualness between the two of you falls with your expression.

“She’s right, you know,” Dorian says softly, and the days are limited—from here to the temple and back again, your journey is coming to a close. You can’t help but wonder where you’ll be once you’ve filled whatever purpose this anchor has given you. “You look terrible.”

“I know,” you say, letting him guide you out one of the side doors and down the circular stairs leading to the main hall. Solas is gone. “I need—“

“None of that,” he interrupts, and letting him get to know you so well has become both burden and affection. “They know very well what’s happened, and they’ll all tell you the same thing: rest, else you collapse in a heap of old voices and exhaustion.”

“They’ve been quiet,” you explain, nodding to Varric, nestled in a chair by the fireplace with papers scattered before him. He gives you a wave, a brief smile, and relief floods your veins. “It’s—I have no word in the common tongue to explain it.”

“What of your tongue?” he inquires, keeping you steady as you climb the stairs to your quarters, and you find it difficult to believe you walked this same path some hours ago to try and find refuge only to find loneliness. Now, you step in the darkness of your room and feel nothing but comfort. “This is all very… elven.”

“Elf-y nonsense if you were to ask Sera,” you say, not altogether unhappily. You need her disbelief and refusal of acceptance; if nothing else, it keeps you some sort of grounded. “But no, I don’t think so. None that I know.”

“Unfortunate.” He helps you ease out of your shirt, your knees hitting the back of your bed with a quiet _thump_ when you sit. His own hands are warm, different than the hug of the water—not quite as gentle yet tenderness with every curve of his knuckles. “Perhaps ‘bone-deep tired’ will have to do. I daresay you’ll sleep the next two days without trouble.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time.”

“And yet you’ll sleep anyway,” he snaps quickly, working at your leggings next. You don’t bother with your usual routine, and Dorian slips out of his own casualwear before climbing into bed next to you. You want to argue—you can’t afford to spend any more time than necessary in the walls of your quarters, the trap of your mind, not with the threat so close to your door. Time hasn’t been on your side since this began.

“Corypheus won’t wait,” you tell him, which earns you a scoff and an arm around your waist. You’re still not sure how you can be so comfortable with all this—human touch, radiant heat, a body lying next to yours in such simplicity. Affection was never your strongest suit, though sentimentality has always bled from you since you could speak. “If he strikes when we’re not ready, all of this will have been for nothing.”

“I doubt we’ll ever truly be ready.”

“We have to be,” you counter, voice thick with needed sleep and obligation. There was a time when you believed you would never care about human affairs, and now you speak for a god you don’t believe in.

“What we _have_ to be, amatus, is sleeping. You’ll save no one like this.”

“Ir tel’him,” you breathe, offering no resistance when Dorian’s hand finds your own. “I’m still me.”

“I know,” he whispers, hot breath against the back of your neck, and the heat is more welcome than the strange warmth—you’re here, alive, and the aches of earlier battles have settled into the familiarity of your bones. You’ll wake after dawn and begin the end, and the voices return in a quiet murmur—years of knowledge and history burned into the paths of your memory, kept alive in your veins, and they’re content where they rest. You’ll learn to decipher them sooner rather than later; you are still you, and the voices have simply become another part of that.

Perhaps you were never whole to begin with. Maybe you never will be.

“Sleep,” Dorian insists, thumb sweeping over the concave of your knuckles. It beckons you, and though you breathe water when you close your eyes, you’re at peace.

For now, you simply exist.

**Author's Note:**

> translations: 
> 
> _halam'shivanas_ \- the sweet sacrifice of duty  
>  _ir tel'him_ \- i'm me again  
>  _ir abelas_ \- i am sorry
> 
> catch me @ [tumblr](http://sylphfriend.tumblr.com)/[twitter](http://twitter.com/sylphfriend) (i yell about dumb fictional characters a lot)


End file.
